Page 83 of Love to Hate You

I plow my hand through my hair with more agitation than when she first walked in the door.

How’s that possible?

I was afraid she’d be hurt or pissed off and she was neither of those things. She didn’t give one single fuck about what happened between us. She was totally nonchalant about the situation. And damn, if that doesn’t chafe my ass. Which is ridiculous. This is precisely the outcome I was shooting for.

And yet…

By the time Daisy opens her bedroom door and walks out again, I’ve worked myself up into a fine lather. I’m practically frothing at the mouth.

What the hell has this girl done to me?

I pride myself on being able to remain detached from most situations. Especially ones that involve chicks. And yet, Daisy has managed to flip a switch inside me. She’s totally messed up my narrative.

Whatever I was about to say dies on my lips as my gaze rakes over her.

Short skirt that bares way too much of her legs. Tight top that hugs her curves.

Curves that I had my hands all over last night. And heels that give her more height.

I narrow my eyes knowing exactly what this outfit signifies.

Why the hell is she wearing one of her date night outfits? I’ve seen enough variations to know a I’m-hoping-to-get-laid outfit when I see one.

I sit up straight as my voice sharpens. “Where did you say you were going?”

She throws a look my way as if she can barely tolerate the sight of me.

Seriously?

It takes everything I have inside not to jump off the couch and remind her exactly who’s arms she spent the night wrapped in. But, I don’t. Somehow, I manage to keep my shit together.

“I didn’t.” She grabs her purse off the table.

I gnash my teeth together and count to ten, trying to rein in my temper. The fact that I shouldn’t give a damn about where she goes, what she does, or who she does it with, isn’t lost on me.

“Are you going out on a date?” I congratulate myself for keeping my voice neutral.

“Yup.”

Her coolness is like nails slowly scraping across a chalkboard. For Christ’s sake, I should be rejoicing that she’s moved on so quickly. Instead…

“And you’re wearing that?” My brows lower.

Daisy glances at her ensemble. “That was the plan. Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

I make a conscious effort to unlock my jaw. “Don’t you think that skirt is a bit short?”

She smooths a hand over the fabric. Not that there’s much of it.

Just a hint of a frown mars her face as she considers the question. “No. It hits mid-thigh, which is a perfectly acceptable length.”

“You can’t even bend over without flashing your panties,” I point out. That thought is enough to incense me.

“No worries there,” she says sweetly, practically skipping toward the door. “I’m not wearing any.”

The breath hisses from my lungs just as the door to the apartment slams shut.

Oh, no she didn’t!

But yeah…yeah, she did.

Fuck!

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